


a main character

by riviaborn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, I'll add more tags as i go, Modern Girl on the Continent, Monsters, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, She's not a Mary Sue, as you can see, because this is a long fic, i swear to god she's not, modern girl, starting that tag too fuck it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riviaborn/pseuds/riviaborn
Summary: i am not a “main character.” i am not some important, lost heiress fulfilling a prophecy. i'm not part of a rag tag group of kids, looking to overthrow a government. i'm not even someone who makes rooster noises and calls old men with disabilities a codfish. i'm not a “main character,” and that's okay.i find myself in a...situation. of sorts. i am in an unknown place. at an unknown time. in an unknown bed. i know i am in trouble. i just don't know what kind yet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	a main character

**Author's Note:**

> ok so here's the first chapter to this dumb fucking fanfic. i told myself i'd stop writing fanfiction about modern girls falling into universes where they had no sense being. however, i rewatched the witcher, and quarantine is hitting a bitch hard.
> 
> have fun, and hm. fuck.
> 
> also leave a comment if you liked it.
> 
> if you hated it, don't leave a comment. a bitch already has depression about her writing skills.

I am not a “main character.” I am not some important, lost heiress fulfilling a prophecy. I'm not part of a rag tag group of kids, looking to overthrow a government. I'm not even someone who makes rooster noises and calls old men with disabilities a codfish. I'm not a “main character,” and that's okay. 

I find myself in a...situation. Of sorts. I am in an unknown place. At an unknown time. In an unknown bed. I know I am in trouble. I just don't know what kind yet.

Three things you should know about me. Right off the bat. I am 16. I am a girl. I am from the United States of America. Regrettably. Three other things you  _ might _ want to know are as follows: I work for my aunt who sells occult items, I found a pendant with a weird symbol, and it opened up and swallowed me whole.

Needless to say, I am not in America any longer. In fact, I think that I was transported somewhere not in my world entirely. Sure, the woman who keeps checking in on me keeps speaking in English, but that is not English in the literal sense. She speaks with a strange dialect, stressing certain syllables that were not usually stressed in the English language. She’s nice enough, and I can understand what she’s saying. Perhaps this is all a big  _ misunderstanding _ and I’m in some sort of weird half baked cosplay town. Surely those existed, right?

The woman comes back a few moments later with food, something I am deeply grateful for. It looks like soup, and it tastes like soup. So, it must be soup. It’s not bad, whatever it is. It’s warm and spiced quite well. There are chunks of what I believe to be potatoes, tomatoes, and … beef? I hope it’s beef. Whatever it is, it tastes a little gamey but good.

“You up to talking, dearie?”

“I suppose. Who am I talking to?”

The woman, her name is Mary Margaret according to the man downstairs who likes to shout frequently, laughs a good belly laugh before sitting on the side of my bed. She tucks me in just a touch, content to be taking care of me. Her regular job must not be very  _ fun _ . She pets my auburn hair, pushing it away. It’s quite sweaty. Gross.

“Just me, dear. I’ve just told my husband about you, so we’ve not gotten the ealdorman involved just yet.” Ealdorman. What an antiquated way of speaking. Stranger and stranger. 

“I guess I will, then.”

“All right, then, dear. What’s your name? I’m Mary.”

“Yasmine,” I state, giving her just my first name. Surnames seem too...committed right now. She nods, as though she’s thinking.

“And how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I reply, soft and earnest. She nods again. She pats my hand twice, and it occurs to me finally that I might not see my aunt again. The idea is quite scary, but I’m sixteen. I think I’m on top of the world. I think I can manage without her. I’m wrong.

“Have you a husband?”

“No!” I answer with a bit more gusto than she expects. Mary startles but smiles nonetheless, hand resting on my wrist. 

“Of course, of course. Sorry, missie.  _ I _ was married at seventeen, so I suppose it’s not all that strange for you to be unwedded yet.” Mary stands and goes to the window, opening it just a touch. She even opens it out just a touch to let a breeze come in.The room’s a bit stale, so I’m glad she does it. I breathe in some fresh air, and Mary turns to face me again.

“And...what of the manner of your arrival?” She asks, eyes almost shifty. She looks from left to right before settling on my face.

“My arrival?”

“Yes, Miss Yasmine. You came in a flurry of magic. Twas teal in color, dear.” She sounds afraid. To be fair, I’m afraid too, and if a bitchy teen landed in  **my** yard in a “flurry of magic”, I would suppose I’d be quite afraid as well. No matter.

“Ah. Well, that’s weird.”

“I should say so.”

I shift to sit up, grunting with the effort. I’m not in any pain, per say, but I do feel a bit lethargic. Perhaps this is the result of magic. I say this in my mind as though I am the authority on magic. Again, I’m sixteen.

Mary comes to my side, assisting me with sitting up. I smile at her. She’s kind. I like her. Maybe she can help me.

“I’ve never done that before, and I don’t think I have magical powers. I think I would know before now.” Mary seems to think about this. Then, she nods. She has decided something.

“Well, I’ve determined you’re not a threat. You’ll be staying with us as long as you need. Damn what my husband says.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t want you in trouble.” I’m polite. She’s not my guardian or an authority figure, so Mary’s okay in my book. I worry and fret over myself, smoothing my blanket. Mary just smiles at this, going to pat my hands.

“Don’t you worry a bit, Miss Yasmine. I’ll talk to my husband. He’ll come around. I need an extra hand anyway.”

“If you say so…”

“Absolutely  **not** , Mary! I don’t need another gods damned mouth to feed! I’ve let it go on long enough with you feeding her and bathing her. I’ll not allow it any longer. Throw the bitch out into the street!”

I listen from my bed. It is a day or so after my conversation with Mary, and things are not looking good. Her husband, Lief, is not pleased with my presence in the house, and I know I should probably leave before Mary gets in more trouble defending me. But I’m not equipped to actually live on my own. No matter how capable I thought I was when I was with my mother.

They scream for another hour, and I hear a loud smack. I have to get Mary out of here too. I gather up what I can and throw it into a bag beneath the bed. I swiped this the day before when Mary let me walk around the house. I throw what I think we need: a blanket, some clothes, and some bread from Mary’s lunch. We can get more later. I assume. Or I can. I have to ask Mary first if she wants to go. She may not want to. The thought scares me. 

Sneaking through the house, I come upon Lief cradling his face. Oh. Oh, so Mary is the culprit of the smack. Oof. Maybe we don’t ask her to go. She seems nice, though. I walk through the house, heading directly for the door. I grab a few more things as I pass by. Just food. Nothing of value. A few clothes, of course. I refuse to walk around in the nude. I’m not that confident in myself.

The door is unlocked, and it’s quiet. I have not gone outside yet, and I’m scared to. Mary keeps me separate from the outside world for the most part. I am usually allowed downstairs in the kitchen or upstairs in my room. Occasionally, I am allowed to bathe. Too occasionally. I miss my showers.

It is night from what I can see. Stars twinkle over my head, and a moon — decidedly not  _ my _ moon from home. The craters are different. It just  _ feels _ different. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Losing my mind. Not wholly unreasonable. The path is worn dirt, packed in from feet treading over it for decades. I edge over the path, careful of rocks and other sorts of things in the road. The shoes Mary outfits me with are not the sturdiest. I suppose she does not expect much walking from me.

The road leads down to a little village, bathed in moonlight. It’s empty unless you count the dog snoring in the yard of one of the smaller homes. He wakes and growls as I pass by. I move quickly. I am not excited about being dog food. 

The village is no bigger than a few houses. I see what I assume is a blacksmith’s house. I can see the big hammer and anvil thing. I’m not sure how it works, but it looks cool. This whole place looks cool. Very Lord of the Rings but...no elves yet. That I know of. I start down the path, grabbing things from stalls that are left unattended in the chilly evening. I make it past the village, and I move further down the trail into the dark. I should have gotten a torch. That would have been smart. I’m not smart. Most days.

The road is hard to see, and it’s pitch black except for the moon. Even the moon is waxing, so if I spend more than one night out here, I’ll eventually be under a new moon. Ugh. I go until I can’t go anymore, and I stop at the side of the road in a little ditch that’s relatively dry. I pull out a bit of bread and tear off a few bits. It’s dry, so I wash some of it down with a splash of water. I don’t have much, but I’m pretty sure I learned in my girl scouts troupe that running water was okay to drink. I hear a stream or something in the distance. It’s probably where the village people get their water. I should be careful. Tonight has been long, so I lay down to rest. I’m far enough away from town that I feel comfortable sleeping and waking up later.

I know I can’t sleep in the ditch, so I venture out a bit off the beaten path and into the woods. Propped up on a tree, I close my eyes and try to stave off the chill. 

I wake up freezing cold. I’m shivering, and the ground is a bit muddy from the rain two days ago. I stand up and dust myself off for all the good that  _ that _ does. My destination is somewhere out there, so I set off in the same direction I had started last night. Straight and away from the village I’d been staying in for a week or so. The road is empty this early in the morning, but I at least have sun this time. I can see the road and know there’s nothing on it this time.

I walk for about an hour before actually reaching anything. It’s a wooden shrine just taller than me. It’s the visage of a woman screaming. Kind of terrifying. I sit to rest for a minute, eating another shrivel of bread. Not much else to eat. No one passes me as I go. Strange. It feels like the village is the only place that exists. I hope not. I don’t want to go back there.

After five minutes of rest, I start back on the trail, my feet already starting to ache in these shitty shoes. I hum to myself, a Backstreet Boys song that my sister always sings. It serves to keep me not bored for the duration of my walk. However, it’s over too soon, and I forget the lyrics halfway through. On to NSYNC. Then, Jim Croce. Then, Cat Stevens. I go through every old white dude that my dad used to listen to before going through every white boy band my sister listens to. Then, I hum about forty million hymns that I remember from Bible school. This shows how desperate I am for entertainment.

From what I’ve seen, I have no phone, no connections to the modern world, and no friends or family nearby. I am alone here in this strange backwards-in-time world, and I’m not quite sure how to get back to where I’m comfortable — 2020. I’m not even sure how I got here in the first place, so getting back seems a bit far fetched. 

I see my first person on the road around midday. He rides in from a branching path on a chestnut mare with a stripe of white down her nose. He is the strangest person I have seen in this world thus far. His hair is milk white, stretching down, unbound, to his back. He looks young in the face from what I can see, but I can’t see much. I’m so eager for a companion that I speed up to go towards him, but I slow down once I think. He could be a murderer. He could be a crazy psycho guy with nothing to lose. It really has been lonely though…

I speed up again. The logic part of my brain isn’t really developed yet. I jog towards him, and if he can hear me coming, he doesn’t really show it. He continues to trot along on his horse. 

“Hey! Slow down, please!” I call, finally catching up to him. He doesn’t slow down. Rude. I huff and puff as I jog to keep up with his horse. He affords me a glance, and… he reluctantly slows down. I offer a smile and catch my breath. Thankfully, he sees that I’m essentially a  _ child _ .

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Yasmine.”

He grunts.

Oh. 

Cool.

“Haven’t seen many people on the road today. You?”

“No.”

“Yeah… yeah. Been pretty scarce. You uh… come here often?”

“No.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Me neither. Ever, really.” 

The white haired man just keeps trotting along on his horse, and I follow foolishly. He seems nice. Kind of. In a gruff dad sort of way. Up close, I can see his eyes, bright and golden… They’re  _ cat _ eyes. Weird contacts.

“Your eyes are strange,” I whisper under my breath. He can’t hear me since he’s all the way up on his horse. Convenient since I don’t want to be rude. He might get angry if I’m rude. Plus, my aunt always tried to instill some sense of propriety. 

“Never seen a Witcher?”

Oh, ok. He can hear me. Well. Shit.

“I’ve heard of witch _ es _ . Not Witch _ ers _ . Can you do magic?”

The horse stops, and the man—self proclaimed  _ Witcher _ —looks down at me with a frown. I frown back. Might as well. I’ve never been so explicitly frowned at. He keeps going then, and I follow. I don’t want to lose my one companion now that I’ve got him.

“I can do some magic. Small spells,” he replies after a second, frowning deeper still. This man has a grumpy face for the ages. I am sure he is insane. Magic isn’t real, and no one can do any sort of spells. Small or otherwise.

“Right. Suuure.” I walk beside him still. He’s nice. Sort of. “What kind of spells?”

He grunts. I should tread carefully, but I won’t. He seems frustrated with me, but I don’t care. I wait for his answer, and we get farther along down the road. My  _ knees _ hurt. I should have done more cardio in gym class.

“Aard sends out a great gust of wind. Pushes a foe down. Put out a candle too. Igni is fire. Shoots out a blast of fire. Effective for large groups of enemies. Yrden is a magical trap. Slows most people down. Quen is a Witcher’s shield. Blocks attacks and crossbolts if you’re lucky. Axii can influence someone’s mind.”

“Mind control. Cool.”

“Hm.”

The walk is quiet after that, and I’m not too talkative when I know the guy I’m talking to is the emotional equivalent of a brick wall. The walk is nice though, and the horse is cute. When the man isn’t looking, I brush my fingers along the horse’s soft hair. She’s a pretty horse, more red now that I’m looking up close. She has a white stripe down her pretty nose that I am not allowed to touch (if the white haired man’s glare is any indication). I touch her anyway. At least, I think she’s a girl.

“Don’t touch Roach,” he growls, and I let my hand fall to my side, properly admonished. His growl is frightening. He is frightening. I walk forward,  _ not _ touching Roach.

“Who names a horse  _ Roach _ ?”

“Me.”

“And who are  _ you _ ?”

“Geralt of Rivia. Some call me the Butcher of Blaviken.”

I look up at him, and I size him up. He does look like he could butcher someone if he had to. The two swords on his back definitely lean towards the butchering career. I wonder if it’s butchering people or animals that he’s known for. I hope he’s not well known for butchering sixteen year olds. If he is, I’m in trouble.

“I’ll just settle for Geralt. Where exactly are we, Geralt?”

“Five miles from the Temeria border. Why? You don’t know where you are?”

I shake my head. Might as well be honest. His brows furrow, and he continues to sneak glances at me. He seems suspicious of me. Which to be fair, I can understand being suspicious of someone like myself. Sixteen and near barefoot (my shitty shoes were now falling off from the very minimal effort). Hair half wild from sleeping in the bushes. I look like a lunatic.

“Where are you from?”

“Missouri,” I mumble, so quiet he  _ surely _ can’t hear.

“Misery?”

I whip my head up and frown. “How do you keep hearing my very  _ obvious _ mumbles?”

“Witchers have enhanced hearing,” he says, and I swear I can see a smirk on his lips. Asshole. We continue to walk until I decide to speak again.

“Miss _ ouri _ ,” I enunciate. “It’s a state in the United States of America. It’s a country, and it’s very far from here.”

“Never heard of it,” Geralt grumbles, and of  _ course _ he hasn’t heard of it. He sounds like he’s English or something. 

My stomach grumbles, and Geralt reaches back into Roach’s saddlebags, handing me an apple. I take it and practically devour it. God, I miss fruit. Fresh fruit. Bread can only do so much, and I profess love for carbs on most days. 

“Where are you from?” I ask, mouth full of sweet, juicy apple.

“According to my name, Rivia.”

“And according to the truth?”

“Kaer Morhen.”

I nod and continue to munch on my apple, praying to whatever gods there are in this weird alternate universe that there are not any worms in this apple. So far, I have come out of this  _ unwormed _ . Gross.

“Don’t know where that is.”

“Most people don’t.”

“Don’t know where Rivia is either. I know the French Riviera, but that’s the only thing that’s even remotely close. I doubt they’re the same.” Geralt stops his horse again at my words, and he frowns. I stop and frown back. Perpetually frowning, the two of us.

The town is closer now, and the road has widened a bit the closer we get. The earth is more disturbed, horse hooves present even before Roach trods over them. I can see the town semi-clearly, and it is not very impressive. There are a lot of people there, and it looks bigger than the last place I was at. It’s not a city by any means. In fact, it looks downright sad. There’s a few people milling around from what I can see, but they look common, with roughspun robes and sad faces. There’s a smithy and a carpenter that work across from one another. They’re the happiest of the group, talking across the road and laughing.

I continue to follow Geralt because… well, there’s not much else I can do. He is just as silent as he always is, pensieve and broody. Kinda cute. If I was honest. Geralt stops in front of a board with papers nailed to it. He grabs a few, and I watch him grab even ones he will not be interested in. Like,  **BLACKSMITH DESPERATELY NEEDED** . He doesn’t look like a blacksmith. Then again, I could be very wrong. 

“Why are you taking those?”

“I’m a Witcher.” He says as though that explains everything. It doesn’t?

“Okay… Why do Witchers take pieces of paper from a board and glare all the time?”

“Because we hunt monsters, and because we don’t like annoying girls who ask too many questions.”

I frown at him, and he just frowns back. We’re not getting anywhere in that department, so I look away and grab the one he didn’t see, a little scrap of paper at the bottom.  **WANTED: MAN OF BRAVERY TO FIGHT BEAST OF THE WOODS. SEEK TANNER.**

“This looks interesting,” I say to Geralt, nudging him and handing him the paper. He’s flipping through the ones he’s got, pinning the ones he’s not interested in back to the board. He looks at the scrap of paper I show him, and he grunts. He does that a lot.

“Hm.” He snatches it, and I beam up at him.

“We have to find Mr. Tanner. Shame they didn’t give us a last name to go off of. How many Tanners do you think there are here?”

“Tanner’s not a name. A tanner skins dead animals.”

“Oh… Gross. Okay, then, let’s find the tanner.”

Geralt turns to me, and I am afraid of him again. He glares down at me, tall and imposing. I look up at him. What else can I do? We stare at one another, I in fear and Geralt in annoyance, for some time. He points at me, a gloved finger inches from my nose.

“ _ We _ are not doing anything. You are going to leave me alone.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I spit back, pushing his finger out of my face. Though I am little… “Is no one here helpful? I wake up in this  _ weird _ world with a woman dabbing my head with water while her husband screams at her for taking me in. I finally meet up with someone who seems capable of handling something of authority, and he tells me to fuck off! I don’t know where I am, the  **least** you could do is tell me where I can go to find someone without a stick up his ass!”

Geralt frowns. “You woke up here? In a world you didn’t know? Explains why you don’t know what a Witcher is. You’re from misery? The world of misery? Or those United States of something?”

“America. And for the last time, dude, it’s  _ Missouri _ . Not misery. But yes, I am decidedly not from here. Despite looking like a street urchin from a stage production of Oliver Twist!”

“I don’t know what that is—”

“Of  _ course _ you don’t. The point is, will you help me find some place to stay where I’m not in fear for my life?”

Geralt frowns, and it seems like he’ll say no. It seems like he’ll kick me out and damn the consequence or stain on his karma. I wonder, in the silence, what I’m going to do if he does say no. If he rejects the request for help. I could surely ask someone in this village for help if I had to. I could offer some kind of assistance. Though, I didn’t have many skills outside of tending a shop. I could do something like that. I’m sure there were people who needed sorts like her.

“Fine.”

I look up at him, eyes blinking up at him. I wait, and I wait for him to take it back. He doesn’t. He simply nods and starts to walk off towards the unexplored spit of town. I follow with a huff and wince when I step on an especially sharp rock. Geralt walks towards a man, and he asks for the tanner. Geralt is given directions, and I am following again, confused and anxious. He was going to help me. But help me how? I wasn’t sure.

Turns out, the tanner lived on the outskirts of town, and Geralt walks up to an old cottage and knocks three times. The tanner answers on the beginning of the fourth knock. Really, the Witcher was quite impatient at times. 

The tanner is a nice man, and he sends us in the proper direction. Something, something, beast. Something something. He describes the beast in great detail before we leave — larger than a barn, head of a deer, a  _ demonic _ third eye. Geralt nods and haggles his price. Once they settle on a rather  _ large _ amount of orens, as Geralt calls them, the tanner and Geralt shake hands. The Witcher leaves not a moment later, his new ward (that’s me) following behind him.

I walk as quiet as possible behind him, watching my step and following in his large footprints. He glances back again, and I swear he smiles once when he sees how stealthy I’m being. 

“You would serve well under the School of the Cat or the Viper, were you a man.”

I look up when he speaks. I tilt my head and wonder briefly what he means. I’m so preoccupied with being quiet that I don’t think in that immediate moment that I can ask. My words come eventually, and I finally speak up, voice barely over a mumble.

“Women cannot be Witchers?” I ask.

“Not those who were born women, no.”

I nod, a bit sad at the prospect. I don’t know why I’m sad, but the idea of being excluded based solely on your bits was a bit shitty.

“Is it a...culture thing...or…?”

“Mutagens. It works differently. At least, that’s what they tell us. Could just be that the older Witchers before our time didn’t want women in the ranks.” 

That brings me some joy. Perhaps women can. Perhaps it has just not been tried enough. The concept of mutations is quite… strange. I want to look into it if I can. Resolved to learn, I wait to quiz Geralt more. It doesn’t seem like he knows a whole lot. Perhaps there are more Witchers. He talks like there are.

“Stop.”

I obey. I stop in my tracks, and Geralt seems to hear something. Then, he’s running, and I am running to keep up. He runs through very painful paths, shoving through branches and brambles that get caught on my dress and continue to erode my poor shoes. I am eventually barefoot, mud catching my shoes and ripping them from my feet. Ah, well. Not too great a loss. Rocks cut at my feet as I sprint forward, bowing my head forward and trying not to focus on my burning lungs. How fast could this guy ru — ?

I smack into Geralt’s back with an oof, and before I can berate him for just  **STOPPING** , he holds up a hand. I look up, and I see it. It is a  _ beastly _ thing. I have never seen anything quite so frightening in my life. The tanner had not done this  _ thing _ justice. The head did resemble a deer, but there was no fur on the nose of it or on its arms. The skin was fleshy, pale and almost sickly. It spread across its face and faded into fur that was matted with something. It could be blood. Could be something else. I’m not getting close enough to know. It is truly the size of a barn, I think. It’s big, and it towers over Geralt. Its claws are as big as I am, sharp and covered with dirt and blood. It gives it a sickly brown color. What is most hideous and heinous about it is its third eye. It is a different color from its other two eyes below. They are a beautiful blue, bright and stunning. The third is a sickly yellow, almost the color of vomit. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Geralt…”

“Can you climb trees?”

“Sort of, I —”

“Climb the tree behind us. Slowly. Do not come down until I call for you.”

“And if you don’t call for me?”

“Wait for it to leave. Or die. By starvation or Fiend.”

I do what he says, and I step backwards slowly to climb up the tree. I slip once, but I renew my efforts with only a little gasp. I sit on the little ledge of the branch that will support me, and I attempt to keep my heart rate in check. I also notice things as he fights the Fiend. One, Geralt is a very talented fighter, and two, I never want to see one of these creatures again. They are terrifying, and I watch Geralt go up against it with some success. 

I’m not sure how long the fight lasts, but it seems to go on for a while. Geralt never seemed to tire near the beginning, but as the end of the fight draws near, I see he is panting and near exhaustion. The Fiend isn’t doing much better. It ends rather unceremoniously with Geralt making the killing blow with a grunt. The blade sinks into its neck, and it screeches a few more times before it dies. I wait. Geralt said not to come down until he called. I would listen. I was good at that. Sometimes.

“Safe to come down,” he calls, and I scramble down the side of the tree, going to him while he.. gathers items from the Fiend’s body. 

“Good job,” I breathe, looking down at the beast, its head lopped off for transportation purposes. I assume.

“Hm.” It’s all he says. 

I follow him back to the village, looking around now that I’m not running after Geralt. It’s a beautiful countryside, green and lush. Nice to walk through when there aren’t monsters. Geralt is just as quiet as he always is, trudging through the countryside with a sour look on his face.

The sack of gold he receives doesn’t seem like nearly enough now, and I think he probably deserves more. But I don’t say anything. I’m supposed to be quiet now, I suppose. I shiver as we walk towards the bulk of the village, and Geralt looks back at me. I look a little sickly, so he just sighs and pulls his cloak off, draping it over my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say, voice a bit tentative and soft. He nods, and we walk into the inn. Or what I assume to be the inn. He pays for a room, and food is brought for him. And surprisingly, he places a plate of food in front of me. I mumble a quiet ‘thank you’, and the innkeep smiles. At least there were some nice people in this world. The innkeep and maybe Geralt.

Geralt and I eat in silence, both too hungry and too tired to carry on any sort of conversation. I’m fine with it for once, and he seems grateful for the silence. Once we finish eating, we march up to the room, and almost as though God is laughing at me, we discover only one bed. Or, I discover one bed. Geralt seems fine with it. Or maybe he knew.

“You take the bed,” he grumbled, and I frowned. That didn’t seem fair.

“You’re the one who fought the monster.”

“You’re a child. And a woman.”

“I’m sixteen, and my sex shouldn’t have anything to do with it!”

Geralt stares for a moment, golden eyes annoyed as they look down. He tightens his lips and furrows his brows. Then, he starts to schluff off his armor and swords, kicking out of his boots and pulling his hair free from the tie. He goes to the water basin to wash his face and neck before dropping the bloodied cloth in the basin and returning to the center of the room where he unceremoniously plops into the bed and relaxes. Well. That answered that question.

“Can I borrow your bedroll?” I ask softly. Geralt looks at me, and he  _ smiles _ just faintly.

“No. You wanted the floor.”

“You’re a dick.” She goes to grab his bedroll, and he snorts out a little laugh. It’s soft, but it’s present.

“Come here. We’ll face back to back. It’s better than you hurting your back. We’re going a long way tomorrow.”

This was the most he’d really spoken to me. It was nice. His voice was deep and soothing, and  _ he _ was nice. I nod and go to the basin where I begin to wash my face as well. Once my upper body is relatively clean, I wash my feet, all scraped up and in pain.

“You’ll need better shoes,” he comments, and I nod. “I’ll get some in the morning.”

“Oh, you don’t—”

“I do.”

And that was that. I stand and go to the bed before slipping under the covers and facing away from Geralt. I close my eyes and try to picture my home. It doesn’t work too well.

“Good night, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

I sleep well enough, and we start our trip. It’s easy because Geralt lets me ride on Roach this time, even though I’m nervous.  _ She won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt her. _ That seems to work.

We travel for a few days, here and there. We stay in a few inns, all with one bed where we both sleep back to back. Like usual. It’s a comfortable relationship even though Geralt doesn’t speak much. But he’s nice despite what he thinks, and I enjoy his company more and more. He seems to like me because I’m quieter now that we’re traveling. 

It seems like we’re going north, and Geralt hasn’t told me  _ where _ exactly we’re going. He just guides Roach along the path and pulls off when we need to rest. The scenery is beautiful, and we see the occasional traveler on the road. There’s a bard that we pass, strumming at a lute, and she looks happy as can be traveling. What a life.

The grass is lush at first, but it dissipates into rocky ground. Though, the grass is still beautiful and widespread. I yearn to run in it for a bit, but Geralt insists we must keep moving. The people are interesting too, each one of them taking on different shapes. I meet my first dwarf on this trip. I meet my first elf a few days later. I am very excited about that fact! They are mystical creatures, gorgeous and new to me, and I cannot help but wish to meet another one as soon as humanly possible.

But Geralt doesn’t stop much, and when he does, he tends to shy away from people. So, I shy away with him, content to exist in this fantasy world with the venison he overcooks and the mushrooms he tends to undercook. I walk and ride until I am dissatisfied with the new sights, bored to everything I now know.

Until we reach Kaer Morhen. After pestering him for  _ hours _ , he finally tells me where we are going, and I ask a thousand questions about it. I do not get much of an answer. He never tells me anything. Then again, I think he likes the quiet.

Kaer Morhen is not  _ exactly _ how Geralt describes it. It is dilapidated, to say the least, and I can see parts of the towers falling apart. It is still impressive, though, tall and reaching quite high into the sky. Higher than I expected, at least. 

“How many of you live here?” I ask, holding tight to Geralt in the saddle.

“Not as many as there used to be.” He always does this. Or at least, he seems to do this alot since I have known him.

Kaer Morhen is not quiet as we ride up through the gates. Witchers, I assume they are witchers, spar in a section not far off, swords clashing louder than any of the background noise. An older man stands speaking to a redheaded witcher in hushed tones. I only catch the end of it. The witcher he speaks to is named Lambert. He is cute. Almost as cute as Geralt. Then again, Geralt is terrifying. 

“Vesemir!”

The older witcher looks up at Geralt’s call, and he puts his hands on his hips and goes to meet Geralt as he hops off Roach. I am left up there because I’m still not very good at getting on and off Roach. Geralt helps me. Isn’t he sweet?

“Geralt. There’s a woman on Roach,” Lambert says. “Didn’t think you hung around with the fairer sex.” He grins like a wolf, and I make a face at him. This just makes him laugh, a husky hissing noise that upsets my stomach. Geralt ignores Lambert for the most part, and he goes to Vesemir to speak with him. I sit on the horse, and I wait. They talk for a while, a few minutes at least, and Lambert keeps his distance from me for at least one of those minutes. He approaches a minute later and pets Roach.

“You ever gonna get off the horse?”

“I don’t know how to.”

The honesty must have taken him off guard. Because he just stares. He offers his hand to help me off, and I take it, letting him hoist me off of Roach’s back and onto solid ground. I smile and give him a lame curtsy.

“Thanks. My name’s Yasmine.” I stick out my hand, and he looks at it for a moment before taking it and kissing my knuckles. I wrinkle my nose, and I slowly pull my hand back.

“Gross, dude.”

“Guess that's the last time I'm nice to a little girl.” Lambert laughs and shakes his head, raising his hands in surrender. Real condescending.

“No,” I say quickly. “People just...don’t do that where I’m from. Most of the time.” Lambert seems to take this in stride, but before he can say anything else, Geralt has come to get me.

“Come on,” he grumbles. “We’re getting you a room to stay in.

He takes me to a small room that is cozy and warm, a fireplace tucked away in the corner and roaring with flame. I quickly dash to the fire, warming my hands and sighing quietly. Geralt stands in the doorway, watching me, and I turn to him to stare back.

“Where are you staying?” I ask. Geralt watches me, silent still.

“I’m not staying. I’ll be sleeping in the barracks with the rest of the witchers before leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?! When will you be back?!” I go to Geralt, just to be close to him, and I look up at him, a furrow in my brow.

“When the Path leads me back,” he answers, vague as ever.

I just nod and swallow thickly. He’s the only person I know. Other than Lambert. And Lambert is  _ weird _ .

“But you will come back,” I breathe.

Geralt just gives a strange smile, patting the top of my head. “If I don’t get slow and die.”

“You won’t. I know you won’t.”


End file.
